


Status Quo

by trickybonmot



Series: Flipping the Switch [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock, Deepthroating, Established Relationship, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Porn, Rough Sex, Slapping, Socks, Top John, erotic condescention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:36:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/pseuds/trickybonmot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows how to show Sherlock a good time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Status Quo

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note: Someone "defended" my fics the other day by saying they weren't porn, exactly. This is an attempt to counter that assessment with some actual porn.

"Hnnngh," says Sherlock. "Fucking _yes,_ John." 

They are stumbling in the door after a case, Sherlock flush with success and John incredibly turned on from watching him solve it. Sherlock's brilliance never fails to make him want to shag the man rotten, which is why right now he's driving Sherlock across the sitting room floor, his hand already shoved roughly into Sherlock's unzipped trousers. He crowds Sherlock up against the back of the armchair, turning him around so that Sherlock's elbows rest on the back of the chair. Then he takes the waistband of Sherlock's trousers and pants together, and pulls them straight down and off, Sherlock lifting his feet cooperatively. John gives Sherlock's bare arse a good squeeze with both hands, then swats it hard enough to make Sherlock jump and stand on his toes. 

John leans in to nip at Sherlock's neck. "Don't go anywhere," he says, then goes as quickly as he can into their bedroom--formerly Sherlock's bedroom--unbuttoning his trousers as he goes. Slipping out of his clothes on the way, he goes to the bedside table for the lube and Sherlock's favorite anal plug.

When he gets back, Sherlock is still standing there in his purple shirt and black socks, leaning forward with his legs slightly spread. Cheeks flushed, he gives John a salacious look. It goes straight to John's cock (as if he could possibly get any harder), but it's not in the rules, so he slaps Sherlock's arse again with a resounding smack.

"Cheeky," he says. Then he presses the lubed plug to Sherlock's entrance, and Sherlock goes still. It's not such a large plug--just a bit bigger than John's thumb at its widest point--and he works it in fast and fairly roughly, the way Sherlock likes. Sherlock hisses, shifting his hips so that John has to hold them still with his other hand in order to get the thing fully inside. When he's finished, Sherlock is shivering, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. 

"Turn around," John says, pulling his shoulders. Sherlock obeys, moving gingerly, but John doesn't give him time to adjust, just backs him up against the chair. He takes a handful of hair to pull Sherlock's head down for a kiss. Sherlock is so out of control that he can't really seal his lips against John's, just offers his tongue for sucking. That won't do; John slaps Sherlock's face with his free hand. Sherlock whimpers and puts a bit more effort into the kiss, his mouth a warm, wet space for John's tongue to penetrate as he takes hold of Sherlock's weeping cock and strokes it, pulling the foreskin over the head in quick, sharp motions. 

After a few moments of this, Sherlock loses track of the kiss again, and John judges he's ready for the next act. He uses Sherlock's hair to pull him back from the kiss, then tugs downward.

"Down on your knees," John says. Christ, Sherlock likes him to sound authoritative, but it's hard when his own breathing is a ragged mess and his own knees are trying to turn to jelly. Sherlock kneels down. His feet fit underneath the chair, which is a nice surprise, since it means that Sherlock's head can press clear up against the back of the chair, leaving him no space to pull away. He ought to love that.

"Suck me," John says. His presses his cock up against the side of Sherlock's face, offering a tiny slap when Sherlock doesn't instantly obey. "Come on, suck my cock. Oh, yes, there we go, that's it." John hisses in pleasure as Sherlock's plush lips open for him. He holds back at first, letting Sherlock control the depth of penetration. Sherlock can do the most beautiful things with his mouth, and for a while he obliges John with gorgeous, avid suckling, his tongue doing things that John doesn't even have words for, but soon enough his jaw goes slack and his hands come up to grip John's thighs in clear invitation: _fuck my mouth_. 

John starts slowly. Still gripping Sherlock's hair with one hand, he moves the other to cup Sherlock's jaw in a possessive gesture. His thumb slips into the side of Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock moans at that. John knows how he gets off on sucking John's cock and fingers at the same time. 

Holding Sherlock's head firmly back against the chair, thumb just slightly pulling at the side of his lips, John sinks his cock into Sherlock's throat. _Christ_. He peers down to see Sherlock gazing up at him, his eyes dark and hungry, cheeks flushed, nose pressed into John's pubic hair. He's told John that this is his favorite thing, to have a cock so far down his throat that he can't even breathe.

"Oh, look at you," John breathes, stroking his cheek. "God, I love you like this." It's part of the game, to be affectionate to Sherlock when John has him in the most humiliating positions. God help him, he really does feel it, though. Sherlock's eyelids flutter in acknowledgement, and John feels the muscles of his throat spasm gently. 

He holds Sherlock there a moment more, then pulls back to let him breathe, though he keeps the head of his prick in Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock takes a few gasping breaths--John counts them--and then he presses in again, not quite as deeply this time, and starts to thrust, giving Sherlock the feeling he craves, of being carelessly and relentlessly used. 

When Sherlock takes hold of his own cock, John knows it's time to move on. He withdraws from Sherlock's mouth, eliciting a wonderfully undignified slurping sound from his hungry lips, and tugs him upward by his hair. 

"Up you get," he says. "Come on, Sherlock. Atta boy." Condescending praise is another thing that Sherlock likes--only during sex, of course. He likes a good many things during sex that he would never tolerate in ordinary life. 

"Did you enjoy that?" John asks. He kisses Sherlock's cheeks and his red, wet mouth. "Tell me how much you enjoyed it."  "I loved it," Sherlock says, barely above a whisper. John slaps his face again, though not hard. 

"What did you love, Sherlock?"

"I loved sucking your cock," Sherlock says, more loudly, though his voice shakes. 

"Good boy," John says. "Time to turn around again. Are you ready to take my cock?"

"Yes."

"What was that?"

"Yes, John." 

John turns him around and positions him leaning forwards again. Sherlock's elbows rest on the back of the chair, his hands hanging limp, fingers twitching in nervous anticipation. 

Sherlock's hole has relaxed slightly around the plug. John grips the black plastic and pulls, dragging the object halfway out of Sherlock's body before pushing it in again. Sherlock makes a surprised sound and braces his feet, the better to thrust back against John's ministrations. John crouches down for a better view, treating Sherlock to the knowledge that his most intimate parts are subject to John's exacting scrutiny. He works the toy in and out a few more times, observing the way the pink rim stretches around the intrusion. On an impulse, he leans in to lick the upper edge, tasting flesh and plastic together; Sherlock gives a high, wavering moan in response, and John can't help grinning to himself. Sherlock could probably stay like this all night, but John has other ideas.

He pulls the plug free, replacing it immediately with two fingers. He wriggles them, feeling how open and pliant Sherlock has become, then gets back to his feet. Christ, the sight of Sherlock nearly undoes him: his hips jutting greedily upwards, his arse and his cheeks blushing the same hot red. As John takes a moment to compose himself, Sherlock catches his eye and gives him the most deliciously wicked grin, a wordless encouragement to _keep going_.

But that's not in the rules, so John smacks him again, high up on the inner thigh this time, and Sherlock grunts in surprise. Grinning, John gets back to work. Planting his bare feet alongside Sherlock's covered ones, he rubs a fresh dollop of lube into his prick, then slides it up against the cleft of Sherlock's behind. He leans forward for a moment, catching his breath, just feeling how Sherlock's torso thrums against his chest beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, how his thighs quiver against John's own.

"John?" Sherlock breathes, impatient, wanting.

"Mm. You ready?"

" _Yes_ , John."

"God, I love you."

"Hnn," a contented sound. Sherlock's hips circle minutely against him. John pulls back just enough to enter him, gasping as the slick flesh slides over his glans, gripping him, inviting him. That first thrust inward is slow, tight, testing, but it makes Sherlock groan, a low, slow rumble of approval that John would swear he can feel vibrating in his shaft. It is too much. He pulls back and thrusts again, too fast, but Sherlock cries out "More!" And so, John gives him more.

This is the part John likes best, and not only for the obvious reasons. What he really loves is the way that Sherlock loses all coherence when being fucked. Of course, Sherlock is not exactly a model of decorum and restraint at the best of times, but John certainly doesn't know of anything else that can make him lean his face on his forearms and just chant the most banal obscenities as though they were brilliant observations.

"Fuck, John," Sherlock moans. "Oh, that's...fuck. John, Christ. Fucking. Oh, god. _God._ "

Meanwhile, he ruts back hard against John's motions, trying for deeper strokes, so that John has to hold his hips tightly to keep them at the right angle. They go on like that for a while, with John's fingers digging into Sherlock's flesh, adjusting and readjusting Sherlock's pose, until John realizes that Sherlock simply can't be counted upon to keep his wits. Abruptly, he stops thrusting, just leaning over Sherlock's body, shaking with want. 

"John?" Sherlock's voice is uncertain, young-sounding.

"Shh," John says, resting his cheek for a moment on the back of Sherlock's shoulder. He'd only intended to pause for a second, but now--

"I think I want you on your back." 

"Hah." Sherlock's quick exhale is somewhere between amused and frustrated. "All right."

Reluctantly, John pulls free of Sherlock's body. Sherlock stays in position, shoulders heaving.

"Come on then." He palms the side of Sherlock's hip, directing him, and at last Sherlock straightens and trudges toward the bedroom, his erection bobbing against his belly. John follows, admiring the lines of Sherlock's arse and calves, and the somewhat silly detail of his black trouser socks.

In the bedroom, Sherlock immediately turns to lie down on his back, pulling up his knees so that John gets a gorgeous view of his...assets. Sherlock's face is flushed pink, his hair in the most perfect state of disarray, his cock glossily purple, his balls high and firm, his arse red-rimmed and inviting. He looks so enticing that John has to pause for a moment.

_"John."_

"Yeah, all right, your majesty, I'm coming."

Sherlock huffs. "Not yet, I hope."

"Quiet, you," John says, as he climbs into the proffered space between Sherlock's legs. But as he sinks back in, Sherlock is anything but quiet, offering up a startled moan that John is sure Mrs. Hudson can't help but hear.

"Are you all right?"

"God, _yes_ , just do that again."

So John does it again, thrusting fast and deeply into Sherlock's welcoming flesh.

"Harder, John!" 

John gets his hands under Sherlock's body, lifting him so that his weight is on his upper back. Sherlock's body folds up, and now John is thrusting downwards, every muscle of his arms and shoulders and abdomen and thighs engaged as he offers Sherlock the full force of his body with sharp, slamming thrusts that have Sherlock mewling, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tense but open. The sight of him is almost too much, but John is determined to hold back, to stay in control until--

"God, touch me, _please_!"

It's a tricky maneuver, but John has had enough practice at it by now to know how it's done. Bracing Sherlock's knee against his shoulder, he reaches around the top of his thigh to grip his straining cock. Sherlock yelps at the touch, his abdominal muscles spasming, and John concentrates on getting the timing just right as he strokes Sherlock's cock and thrusts against his prostate until Sherlock is gasping, cursing, coming, his body clenching around John's cock, and that is, finally, more than John can bear. Rhythm falling to pieces, he gives a few last stuttering thrusts before soft heat floods through him, and from him, and long legs grip him as Sherlock shudders through the final pulses of his own release. 

John lies still on top of Sherlock, just breathing. 

"Oof," Sherlock says at last. "Off."

Groaning, John rolls to the side, allowing Sherlock to straighten his back and stretch out his legs. Both of their bodies are sticky with sweat, but John doesn't care; he tucks himself against Sherlock's shoulder, then leans up for a kiss, which Sherlock gives him, languorous and soft. Their fingers intertwine on Sherlock's chest.

"Mm," says John. "You're incredible."

"John." Sherlock's other hand comes up to twine in John's hair. "You are so very good to me."


End file.
